When almost a tsunami

 

When almost a tsunami

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Rainy nights. Sunny days. Moderate temperatures. “I could live in this season forever,” I said to a friend this morning.

If only. Right? Nope, we get to experience all things.

We got to experience a mountain-storm almost-tsunami the other night. A right whopper.

A few days prior, during a lighter storm, I lay in bed thinking about geography. I’m at the foot of mountains. If a phenomenal rainstorm, something much more than the ordinary, were to burst forth, we could be flooded. Water still flows downhill, mostly, right?

Somebody has to imagine these things.

Next day, I told Leo about my night-time meanderings. He laughed at me. “That cannot happen here,” he said.

And then it did. Rain fell so hard it looked like a solid wall.  I could neither see my brick wall nor anything closer than the wall nor anything such as the tall trees beyond the wall. A solid wall of water. Impressive, oh, yes, most impressive.

Rain, just as in my imaginings, gushed down the mountainside. By the bottom of the hills, the water had become similar to an ocean wave and like a tsunami, a giant wave, the wall of water rushed across the highway into the fields beyond, carrying trees along with parts of buildings, old tires and all manner of debris.

I didn’t see this with my own eyes. I got the report the next morning. My yard, my home, had no damage. The main thrust of the deluge was about a quarter mile beyond us. I heard sirens off and on all night but had no idea what was happening. The Policia were out all night, clearing pathways so traffic could move through in safety.

This was the storm, the water-wave that Leo assured me could not happen. Trees uplifted. New gullies dug out. Entire hillsides, rearranged. Lowlands under water. Nature being creative.

At the same time, tornados in Montana! We surely seem to be experiencing a lot of “never happen here”.

Once the dread heat dome lifted, we have had rain storms nightly, just like that, no transition, no go gentle into the night. Fortunately, most of most of our rains have been just that, gentle into the night.

Part of me is a huge-eyed child, wanting to ask Mother Nature, “What next?”

The superstitious, I admit it, part of me clamps a hand over my lips and whispers raspy in my ear, “Don’t even think that thought. You do not even want to know what could happen next.”

About this time every afternoon, I go out and scan the sky. I watch the black clouds roll in from seemingly all directions, the mountains, the valleys. I listen to the distant rumbles. Know that if it were darker, I’d see flashes of storm to come.

Back in the house, I put the rain-towels onto the window sills, lay another rug along the door to soak up water that comes inside when the storm lashes windy. Within an hour, it is dark. Some nights, I hear rain hit the roof and watch the storm move in, around, and onward. Other nights, I wake to thunder and flashes electric, rain on the roof and trees, roll over in bed and hope we don’t get another “mountain tsunami”.

May the Fourth be with you.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

July 4, 2024

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Some like it hot; some like it not

 

            Some like it hot; some like it not 

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My back yard is full of baby doves foraging. Worms? Could be any number of bugs. They have a huge, juicy selection. All sizes, all colors.

Last night we had a Bing-Bang-Boom-Jingle-Jangle-Whoop of a storm, precursor to rains tonight, all courtesy of Hurricane Enrique. I had to get up in the night and put rugs in front of the door and towels on the window sills to soak up the water. Did I tell you my house is anything but tight?

When I went out to survey my kingdom I found a lot of tree debris, leaves and twiddly stuff, but no major damage.

After I hung the sopping towels to dry on the line, I walked the lane and oh, my, a different picture outside my wall. A lot of broken branches. So Leo, Josue, his daughter Stephany and I filled several wheel barrows with downed deadfall.

On the way back to the house, Josue with his broken foot and me with my cane, had a race to the finish line. Stephany became the judge and drew the line in the gravel. I won by a foot and a cane tip. He lost by a toe. It was a classic example of “The Tortoise and The Tortoise”. With laughter.

An hour later, edging toward afternoon, I stood on my patio and shook my fist at the sky. “Not yet,” I yelled. “The towels aren’t dry.” The sky shrugged.  

Throughout June we had rain at least once during every twenty-four hours except for two days. Maybe three, since one day might have gone twenty-six or seven. I didn’t track that closely. Straight down rain, even with the storm effects. I love straight down rain. No waterfalls cascading off my casa windows.

Gray days later: This morning with great trepidation I turned on the hot water in my shower. After five sun-less days, I took a deep breath and geared up for a quick hop in and out of lukewarm water. My water heater consists of solar pipes on the roof. Amazingly, we’d had enough glare, not sunshine, glare, yesterday to keep my water boiling hot.

My shower is the only thing hot. Temperatures have been steady in the 60s—lower in the mornings, higher in the afternoons.

My friend Cheryl, who lives on the Oregon coast north of Tillamook, wrote me about Portland topping out at 116 F yesterday. She and her husband just built a retirement home and mere days ago, decided to install a heat pump. It’s not as hot on the coast, but, still. . .

Cheryl went on to say, “I feel a bit spoiled, especially when I think of you, Sondra, not having air conditioning or heating in your casita.” I’ll write back that I’m happy she is feeling spoiled. I’m spoiled in other ways.

My son Ben, along with a friend, escaped Seattle, where the streets and highways are broiling and buckling. Sunday night they flew out of the country to Belize.

Ben wrote, “Belize is a country of contradictions, hot and cold, democratic and socialist, poor and rich, third world and civilized. We had baked breadfruit for dinner, dipped in cilantro hummus. Ever had it? It’s crazy. It’s a fruit but it tastes and has the consistency of fresh bread. Wacky. What a wonderful world we live in.”

My daughter, when living in Japan, had a close friend from Belize. Her family lived in primitive conditions yet had a factory that bottled habanero salsa, among other spicy treats. Dee Dee and I are having severe trip envy. How we would love to be there sharing adventures with Ben.

I said to Leo when he came to work in my yard, “Maybe I could get a ticket and fly out tomorrow.” He wisely responded, “Maybe Ben doesn’t want to see his Mama this week.”

Meanwhile cloudy days reign. Enrique, now downgraded to a tropical storm, is blustering its way into the Pacific, having rearranged two-thirds of the entire Mexican coast. The sun will shine again. Rains will pour down. After all, this is the rainy season and when one hails from Montana, every rain is good rain.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

July 1, 2021

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